


Pissbreak: Memoir of a Day in the Life of an Uruk

by aworldofgoblin



Series: Mordor's Finest [1]
Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Game), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Mordor, Orc, Orc Culture, Short One Shot, Slavery, Slaves, Typos, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 22:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11907171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aworldofgoblin/pseuds/aworldofgoblin
Summary: Memorable moments in a day in the life of one of Mordor's finest.





	1. Noon

**Author's Note:**

> This story was created for a Middle-Earth:Shadow of War fanfiction contest that took place some time back. I originally posted it on my DeviantArt page but figured it would be good to leave it here as well.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our hero has a break

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 _Slaves._ Good for nothing, worthless pigskins. Makes me blood boil just thinking about 'em. Can't understand why we don't just get some good uruk warriors to fill their place as laborers, seeing how our boys work twice as fast and without all the hassle of taking "breaks". That there was the problem with them tarks. They were so damn _weak_. Whip 'em too little and they get lazy; whip 'em too much and they keel over and die! No wonder we've been kicking their arses so hard out west. The stupid sods can't stand a little bit o' fighting. In my book, only thing they're good for is torture an' eatin'. They all scream pleasantly and their flesh is as sweet as honey. Whatever that is.

Now that I've clarified I aint' no dirty _tark lover_ , I can begin my tale.

 

All of them forts we got have real funky names. Things like "Barad Dur", "Krambah Bor", "PikiPiki Bangalang"; ya'know, shrakh like that. 'Never really paid attention to what my stronghold's name was but I'm certain it was one of those. What's important is that it was big, nasty, and covered in spikes. So, the ideal place for an uruk of my sort, ya? Troll and drake carcasses hung from all manner of balconies and metal outcroppings, which looked wonderful but gave off the foulest stench you could imagine. 'Can't recall a time when my nose wasn't burning from the fumes. However, I can say that we were the envy of that whole side of Mordor. Our archers could shoot an arrow through the eye of a flying tark if they wanted to. And I know that's true 'cause it was one of their pastimes. When there were pinkskins hurtling through the air you knew someone was getting bored.

But best of all, we had the biggest, baddest, orc in all of the Dark Lord's army as our overlord: Buguk Man-Eater. What a fella. He was the best damn boss that place had seen, and any uruk that says otherwise is a tark loving piece of shrakh! A shame what 'appened to him I s'ppose. Poor sod was gutted by one of his own captains. The same one that had me positioned down at the mines; it gives me even MORE reason to hate 'im. The bastard obviously had it out for all of us from the beginning. Nobody spoke up when he started going easy on the slaves, which should have been a dead give away. I mean, looking back, it's pretty clear he was uh... ya'know...tainted. That orc had some serious wraith magic in 'em. Too much to be saved. Not that anybody would want to; he had always been a right bastard. I'm not ashamed to say I'm glad his 'ead went all explodey.

My first guard post, up in the courtyard, had been perfect. Yeah, the sun burned down bright and harsh, but it was the farthest away from the rotting crap they hung up on the main tower. Plus, I 'ad a front row seat to the goofy antics them archers got up to. Blimey, they were fun blokes. My second post, the one where that coward of a captain posted me, was in them big coal mines we had. I could've fancied I was down there to keep the pigskins in line, but I knew better. I reckon he was hoping I'de choke out from the noxious fumes and whatnot. As if a bit of bad air could kill me, ha! I 'ad more trouble keeping track of the slaves than I did breathing. Down in the mines, there ain't no way to tell the menfolk apart. Firstly, they all bloody look the same. 'Same rags, same bony bodies, and same ugly mugs. I can't help wondering how they don't lose track of their whelps in their mannish breeding pits out west, 'cause they sure as hell don't have a sense of smell.  
Secondly, it's as dark as the inside of an olog-hai's arsehole. A fool found with a torch will be flogged till he can't 'old one no more. No one wanted to run the risk of a spark leaping off 'an catching the 'ole place on fire. Lastly, tarks are so blanketed in coal dust that even without the dark, the soot would cover any brand or number scar. We still brand 'em anyways. S'more of a "showin' 'em who's boss" sort of thing than labeling 'em. 

"Oi, Paguk! I'm takin' a piss!" My voice carried far done the tunnel, echoing along with the constant twang of picks on stone. Most of the already ill-minded tarks were driven bonkers by that noise. I know 'cause they'de always cry about it at the slave house. What would it take them to simply not think about, eh? 

I waited the customary few seconds before a sharp "Whatever!" echoed up from the tunnel below. 'Not a chance I'de leave without makin' sure the pit-master knew. Nobody forgot the story 'bout the bloke that decided to take a leak without telling. Poor sod got his 'ol "club" slashed off. 

The best way to navigate the mine was to see how many tarks were in front of 'ya. The bulk of 'em would be huddled way back in the deep of the tunnels where the coal was the thickest. The slackers tried to find 'emselves up front, the lazy shrakhs. 'Made me feel good when I scared the shit out of 'em on me way up. Rather than trudging over to the waste ditch they had dug out for us mine guards, I took a different path upon exit. To the left of the mining carts they kept around was a steep drop down the canyon the mine had been built into. I myself was fine with cramped spaces. 'Didn't prefer 'em over the open, 'an didn't quite mind 'em either. But the canyon was at a terrible place in between. No matter which way you looked, 'ya felt trapped as a goblin in a ghouls' nest. The menacing red stone that towered above on both sides almost watched 'ya,  
like there was a sort of... evil, a terrible force waiting in those rocks. We knew not to look at the walls too long or else we'd get this dreadful suffocating feeling. Nothing serious like, just a real bad sort of weight in 'yer chest.  
Yet, at the same time as being a tight, cramped space, the gorge was plenty expansive through and through. If 'ye weren't up for the regular climb up the sides, a couple days o'walkin' along the bottom could get 'ya out. That there was why all 'em slaves were kept 'ere. It was live another day in the mines or die in the gorge. 'Can't believe a few of 'em were dumb enough to take the latter. 

The craggy rock walls reached high enough to block out most light( as if the tunnels weren't dark enough).I was smart enough to take my piss break at the height of the day when I could still see in front of me. It was also when the gnats let up. Those buggers would go so far up 'yer nose you'de 'ave to dig 'em out with a pickaxe. 

Not the worst thing you'de 'ave to do with a pickaxe in the mines.

Before heading on me merry way I took a quick glance around. A dead bush rolled on by and a pair of rats scuttled up and down the fetid waste ditch. Not a tark or uruk in sight. Perfect. 

The outcropping the mine's entrance sat on was littered with boulders big 'an small, nearly indistinguishable. I knew the exact one I was lookin' for. It was the ghoul sized one that sat behind the rustiest coal cart we 'ad, and if you looked 'real close you might 'ave been able to see a little "x" scratched into the left of it; that was my handiwork. I moved with needed haste when rolling it over, there was no way I was wasting my chance at finally tearing into my treasure. I was delighted to find the half-destroyed caragor skin pouch in place and seemingly untouched. Before I knew it I was sliding down the side of the canyon, stirring up a painfully noticeable cloud of reddish dust behind me. Bah! At that point, I couldn't 'ave given a shrakh who saw me. Me 'an the pit-master were on good terms anyways. I wouldn't 'ave been attemptin' what I 'ad if we weren't.

I touched down at the bottom of the slope and tilted my head up at the mines far above. I pushed the sickening thought of climbing back up out of me mind and turned towards the endless rocky strip behind me. My preordained hideout was far ahead and I had a load of walkin' to do if I wanted to get back before the pit-master got crotchety.  
Like I said, we were on good terms, but I wasn't 'bout to take push my luck. Uruks like 'im could ignore behavior a couple a times, but there was no way he'd chance looking soft.  
The sun blazed like a great bonfire in the sky, its position above leaving naught a shadow for me to walk in. What with how deep the canyon was, it shook me that the sky's light could still penetrate its depths. No wonder our Dark Lord wanted it purged from the heavens, the damn thing was bloody annoying! If the light itself wasn't obscuring my vision then it was the copious beads of sweating rolling down my brow. There was no use rubbing away the stuff. The dirt and dust from me hands clung to my face like moss to a rock. Before long I looked like one of 'em big ugly red-skinned Uruks from the next tribe over (ugly bastards they are). I was finely adjusted to the hardships of mining life, so's a bit o'grime wasn't gonna ward me off from doing what I right intended to. In no time at all, I had stepped out from a curve in my path and reached my destination.

'Couple of nights before that day I had scoped out a place to run off to. More akin to a 'ole in the side of the gorge than a real cave, it worked well 'nuff. I pushed aside the drying weeds growing against the opening and sat me arse down on a decently sized slab a'rock that was sticking out. 'Soon as I 'ad lowered myself on the stone, I sprang into the air like a tark with a burning poker on its arse. The bloody thing had been baking in the sun so's of course it fried my behind! The leaf-thin leather they gave us for trousers didn't do a damn thing 'fer me.

'Rubbing my burning tush, I became aware of the eyes on me.

The red, rocky walls reached higher than what I knew was right.

I tensed me muscles and bared my teeth as I scanned the ledges looming over. Nothing. Not a trace of movement or sign o'life. Content to relax I retreated inside the meager hole of a cave. 

Murky puddles of stale water pooled at the back of the retreat from the canyon, most if not all dotted with ugly little flys. I weren't 'bout to pass up a good watering hole cause of a few crawly things, so I kneeled down 'an drank 'till I was content. Didn't waste an opportunity to wash off me face either. The fearsome look was mighty dashing but was attracting gnats as well. The flow of water reminded me of why I was here. 'Ad been holding it in all day so I wouldn't need to lie to the pit-master. 'Cause shrakh... the pit-master KNEW a lie when he 'eard one. My hands fumbled with the laces on me trousers as I shambled out to the thicket of half-dead bushes.

I ain't about to go on about relieving myself, you perverts.

Half tied, my trouser laces had nearly been reset when my neck began tingling. A phantom weight fell upon my shoulders like a glare was bearing down on me. Whatever it was, it was close, far too close for my liking. There weren't no time to worry 'bout my britches fallin' as I reached for my bent scimitar. The rusty, bent scimitar I had left back at me post. The damnable blade I SHOULD have had holstered in my belt, but neglected to bring. Whatever was out there with me was going to do Paguk's job for 'im. 

Now, in comparison to those huge fellas they got at the BlackGate, Barad Dur, ect., I ain't the biggest Uruk out there. That ain't saying I'm a goblin or midget or nothin', nah! There are simply times when I feel that being pitted 'gainst another opponent without a proper, sharp object is shamefully unfair. Don't ever confuse that with being some sort of pansy, 'ya hear? 'Cause if there's one thing I ain't, it's a tark-skinned wussy. That being said, I'll continue.

Standing there, with britches almost tied and eyes moving widely, I waited for the first onslaught. The rugged cliff tops hid all manner of terrible pouncing beasties waiting to sink their teeth into my neck, and the increasingly menacing bramble thicket that girdled the cave could hide a whole squadron of blood-thirsty men. For a split second, I entertained the thought I may finally come face to face with the dreaded Gravewalker, but willed it away. The bastard wouldn't trouble 'imself with a lone orc in the middle of nowhere. He wouldn't 'ave waited that long to strike either.  
Low, windy howls resounded up and down the maroon chasm, goading me into a familiar easiness. I lowered my balled fists and shook myself out of the clamped, mental tightness I had been in. I was dreadfully confused; maybe the soot really was getting to me 'ead like them other Uruks said it would. I 'ad never believed a word of it until then, not until my sudden paranoia forced me to consider it. If it was true, I might've 'ad to sneak out more often.

A last, sweeping look of the bushes was all I needed before turning myself around towards the cave and stopping dead in my tracks. Barely visible, it was there. Back in the recesses of the cave, crouched over a dirty puddle of water was the unmistakable shape of a tark. An oddly slender tark at that. Its eyes shot up to mine as its cupped hands came to a sharp stop in front of its face. Like a rabbit, it sat there, completely frozen. The bastard had surely snuck around me while I was preoccupied outside, sneaking like 'em pinkskins loved to do. All for a bit o'muddy water no doubt. This lead to me thinking how long the little shrakh had been out there, or yet, how the HELL I was gonna get it back to the mines. Yeah, cornering it in the cave would be plenty easy. Escorting it the entire way back to Paguk, however, was going to be a pain in the arse. And giving up the rest of my well-earned leisurely time for a measly slave? Not a chance. There was the enticing possibility of ripping out a couple chunks of flesh for a meal, but if I went back to the mines smelling like tark guts, the pit-master would whip me for not getting 'im a piece.

So's I did what I thought was reasonable: turned around again. Then my trousers fell down to my ankles. I never did fully tie them laces. 

"Shrakh!" I scurried to pull the cloth back over me legs and up my waist, but for whatever reason, the fabric kept slipping from my grasp and back down my thighs. Oh the horror! Beads of sweat pooled down my chin as I, at last, managed to precariously arrange my front laces in a knot. Luckily, I was an Uruk that didn't neglect to wear a shorter, second layer beneath his trousers, so I was saved from what could have been truly devastating. My 'ead whipped around to catch the tark in mid-laugh, hands struggling to muffle out what would have been a death sentence in the mines. What noises that escaped were different from those I typically heard out of slaves. Way too high to be any normal slave's voice. Don't get me wrong, all tarks had pathetically squeaky voices, but this one, in particular, was beyond that.

The pinkskin shut its gob for good once I crept closer. In fact, the sorry sod started back peddling. I had been content to let the straw-head on its merry way, even after the... ahem... "pants incident". Now I was curious. This weren't no regular man, nah, this was different. A man-whelp perhaps? Couldn't 'ave been. The tarks guarded their offspring fiercely and wouldn't dare let one run off on its own, let alone into Uruk territory.

"Oi! Why don't you step forward so we won't have to play this little game, eh?" As dearly as I held tark chasing to my heart, I wasn't keen on going spelunking through all 'em puddles; it'd be a pain walking back in water-clogged boots. The tark stopped shortly, as if considering my words, then glanced at the shrinking space behind it. We both knew it wouldn't end in the pinkskin's favor.

You could've coloured me shocked when it actually put a foot forward. "Only if you step back in return!" It retorted with a clear facade of resolve. The whole ordeal had me mighty amused, tarks were normally too spineless to respond to us Uruks, much less make demands.

That voice was higher than any slave's I had 'eard. Smoother too. Think of any Uruk's voice, doesn't matter the tribe, then imagine the complete opposite. I gave a compliant grunt and shuffled backwards, the tark following soon. It shifted out of the cave's shadow teasingly slow, as if I planned to strike as soon as it moved out of the rocky confines. Bit by bit, the sun revealed what was the queerest lookin' tark I've seen to this day. The piss-yellow mess of hair on its 'ead reached near to its arse, which appeared in no way practical. What was the point of all that hair in the first place, eh? Those tarks were like serpents when it came to the cold, but this looked plain silly and too flimsy to keep wrapped around a torso. The fool probably didn't know how easy it'd be for an olog-hai to grab 'im by the locks and swing 'im over it's head. Shrakh, I've always wanted to see that.

What's stranger was its, ugh, body. A freak of nature among its kind I'm certain. Two round lumps of what I assumed were deadly tumors sat apart from each other upon its chest, mercifully covered by its long, tattered robe of an outfit. Its hips were of unnatural girth to produce curves where they shouldn't 'ave been. This was no normal, run of the mill tark. This was a creature I'd heard of whispered in tales at war-feasts or mumbled about by gossiping slaves in the mines. 

Women were more than an uncommon sight in Mordor, they were a right oddity. Raiding parties out yonder west were the only sods who got to see 'em for 'emselves. They were equally pitiful as the males, supposedly. The last female I'd 'eard of being in Mordor was that pest of a sorceress queen down south, and she was a menace to us Uruks so it sounded 'bout right. 

I was one foot in the bramble thicket when at last, she stopped. We were stuck, see? Neither of us was willin' to turn their back on the other or make a move. 'Cause who was I to let a tark get away, and who was she to start sprintin', ultimately provoking me to charge after 'er? I weren't up to it though. The bulk of my experience with tarks involved smackin' slaves and tacklin' escapees, so this was new, needless to say. 'Ad I tried, I'm confident I'd 'ave dragged 'er back to the pit-master no trouble. By the eye, I would've gotten a promotion to second in command for finding a female, I bet. If nothing else, then at least an extra helping of rations. Still, thinkin' 'bout it produced an unpleasant feelin' in me upper intestines. What's plausible was that it was it was nothing but the ghoul meat I'd been dared into eatin' the night before, but I hadn't rationalized it at that moment.

"Well?" She spurred, as if I had the answer to what was next. Out in the full shine of day, I took notice of her caved in cheeks and loose, ill-fitted robe. Identical to the slaves, disregarding the obvious "accessories". Not exactly new to the Mordor way of life, I could tell. 

"Scram I s'ppse," I jerked me thumb towards the entrance to the bramble niche the cave was tucked away in, so she'd get the hint. " ain't got the patience to deal with 'ye."

Couldn't help but roll me eyes as she closed hers and hurriedly murmured what I figured was a mannish prayer. Bah, tarks and their gods. 'Er eyes were big as saucers when she looked back up, putting me in an awkward sort of place. Wasn't used to tarks lookin' me in the eyes with that sort of look. I 'ad to shift me gaze to my feet to stop meself from feeling weird 'bout it, damn her.

"I promise I won't forget this, honest. You have my word." She clasped her hands close to 'er chest and nodded her head all shaky like, neck bent down 'an everything. My feet danced back and forth impatiently, unsure of how to set 'emselves on the ground. This must've been what them slaves gushed over when talkin' 'bout womenfolk. Shrakh, this felt good 'fer them? All I wanted was 'fer her to stopped starin' at me with 'em big ol'eyes like I was 'er savior or something. Wouldn't 'ad been as bad if she just screamed 'an ran away like a good tark.

"Hmmph, yeah." 

The last thing I got from her was a curt nod before she was off, struggling her way through the thorns of the brambles. Knowin' she wasn't locked onto me no more, I stole a meager few glimpses of her fightin' to get 'er tight robe through the branches. 'Course the hems got shredded through and through, the silly tark. The newly made ribbons snagged on every bush she passed by. Nah, there was no harm in lettin' this one go. 

I 'eaded back to the cave when I couldn't hear 'er fumbling no more and assumed I was alone. I 'ad mere minutes to enjoy my peace and quiet before 'aving to head back to my post thanks to my little encounter, and I was intent on using them well. Unfolding the skin pouch I'd set on my arse-frying rock, I let me mind settle on the chances of spying the she-tark again. After gettin' found out, I was skeptical she'd be careless enough to hang around the canyon for much longer. Who's to say I wouldn't gossip about a loose she-slave slinking around the mines, eh? Not that I necessarily would, but she didn't know that. Wherever she headed off to, if she left at all, it wasn't none o'mine concern. I weren't, and still ain't, no dirty _tark-lover_.

Digging my 'and into the pouch, I grinned when I realized she 'ad taken me treasure. My roasted graug tail was gone.


	2. Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of a long day.

At the end of a long day o'doing a fat load o'nothing, me and the boys would herd the slaves out of the mines and into the slave house. Worst part of the gig, really. It took an entire hour to search through the nooks of tunnels for escapees, 'an another to march 'em all out. That didn't account for dragging out the bodies of the tarks who decided to up and croak on the job, lazy bastards.'Used to be we could scare 'em along real quick like by waving our swords around 'an yellin' curses. Shrakh, for the first two or three months it worked like a charm. 'Soon as we raised our blades they'd storm out of the mines lickety split. Then the tarks got accustomed to the act 'an began starin' straight through us or lookin' away, pretending we didn't exist I bet. The overlord wanted as many able bodied workers as possible, so a round or two of beatin' was out of the question. Got to the point where we sort of gave up 'an let 'em do their own thing. No use screamin' 'yer head off if it's for a couple of wayward glances, eh? We still got 'em all back with the meager time the pit-master gave us, so's it worked out fine. From there the few slave trainers that hung out near the canyon would 'ave their fun with the buggers 'till we needed 'em in the morning. No idea what 'appened to the slaves once they entered them big, wooden doors. I imagine they was the reason the slaves dreaded the end of the day. 

Marching the tarks up through the flimsy scaffolds connecting the mine to the canyon top, I picked up on the buzz going around 'bout the Gondorian army out west. If rumors were true, our boys were 'avin more bother with 'em then they should 'ave. I didn't worry my 'ead thinking 'bout it. Our stronghold was more than fierce enough to stand the likes of a few men.

I stopped myself to catch a tark tryin' to throw himself from the scaffolds that evening. Ruckus from a group of the platforms overhead prompted me to peek me head out and 'ave a gander at the fuss they were gettin' in to. At first, I s'pected a duel had broken out. Infighting between slaves was commonplace and a real treat to watch, so it helped make up for what was an otherwise monotonous job. My hopes sank to a smolder when the tarks above let out a chorus of horrified cries. A guard startin' bellowing at what I assumed was the culprit to the hoopla when a small shadow fell over me. The mannish figure rolled over the edge of the scaffold and began falling straight to me, wind whipping 'is clothes wildly and body limp as a boned fish. A whole slew of tark hands reached after 'im, a few of the slaves going so far as to nearly hurl 'themselves after the man. 'Course none of 'em got to the ledge in time, instead having to watch with shocked faces as their pal plunged through the air like a rock. The other guards watchin' with apt humor from below called out to each other. 

"We got a flyer!"

He was near close to plummeting past me when I shot out 'an grabbed 'im by the scruff of his tunic. I could feel the shoddy fabric just about rip in half when I caught 'im, fibers straining from what little mass the slave had. 'Ad he been a bit higher 'bove me, I would've snagged his shirt and nothin' else. The sod was a shakin' leaf in my grasp until I gave 'em a snappy "Oi!". His eyelids flew open, the blacks of 'is bloodshot orbs tiny as Hithlas seeds. He gave me a bewildered glare before tiltin' his head down in what was a mistake I'm sure he regretted. The silly bastard took a single peep at the drop below 'an started clawing at my arm with a vigor I 'ad never seen in a tark, holding onto it like a lifeline. I let myself have a good chuckle at his sudden change of attitude towards fallin' and gave 'im a few light-hearted swings over the seemingly bottomless trench. The other guards started hootin' 'an hollerin' at this.

By the time I pulled 'im over the platform I was on, he was plastered onto my arm with the damn strongest grip you'd ever seen. The tark was like a morgai fly latched onto to the caragor corpse that was my arm. I felt my limb going numb from his legs wrapped 'round me bicep, muscles squeezing me as if he was tryin' to put my arm in a chokehold.

Keepin' my composure, I grabbed 'is wrist and pulled with a sharp jerk. It didn't move in the slightest. 

So's I tried again, and again, and again till I was near pulling my arm off with 'im, lookin' scrambled in the brain I bet. No matter which part of 'im I tried to pry off, he'd resist, if not pull himself in closer. He'd erupted into a surge of pleas as well, beggin' me not to drop 'im when he was but a ghoul's height from a big platform o'wood. His babbles became more jumbled and insistent when I started really going at it, tugging at his legs with every ounce of strength I 'ad. I released a triumphant "Aha!" when I eventually pulled a painfully curved hand off me wrist, only to realize my celebration was premature when it snapped back into place. At this time I noticed Uruks were filtering in behind me, guffawing at what they thought was the best thing they 'ad laid eyes on. This mixed in with the urgent pleas of my assigned slaves, all begging my tick of a tark to let go before I did took drastic measures.

I was fixed to whip out me sword and bring it down on the tark, overlord be damned, when a pair of long-faced slaves pushed their way to the front of the growin' crowd. They eyed me warily, eventually makin' up their minds when they moved closer. The larger of the two grabbed hold of each of the arm strangler's shoulders without any command, pullin' back with what little strength he 'ad. While his buddy was tuggin' away, the second tark began repeating what he must've thought were reassuring words, trying to coax the other slave into a state of placidness, no doubt. I was mighty skeptical of their methods 'till I felt the blunt fingernails pull themselves out of me skin. The smaller, soft speaking one darted his eyes back up to me every now and then, makin' sure I wasn't 'bout to raise my hand against 'em. Not dumb enough to shoo 'em away, I let 'em continue their surprisingly effective strategy. The bothersome thought of being aided by a couple of dirty tarks was made up for by the returned blood-flow to my arm. 

With a concluding, final tug, the slave fell to the platform in a confused mess of limbs. The sorry sod was still mumbling to 'imself as the two pulled 'im back into the crowd, disappearing amid a sea of worn bodies. While dreadfully tender around the spots he'd squeezed the tightest, the slave 'ad done no real damage to my arm. I gave it a quick flex then scowled back at the largely dispersed gathering of uruks behind me. The good lot of 'em had left once they saw the height of the fiasco was over. The few that remained sarcastically chided 'bout not letting tarks get too "attached" to me.

They ignored the insults I flung back, insisting it had been a good look for me: complimented my greaves. What a bunch of arses.

The rest of the way up was, as usual, eventless. The tark farce had been the highlight of the night for most everyone, including myself. The remainder of the trip to the slave house was filled with half-hearted gossiping among guards 'bout the latest promotion of a captain or fanciful wagers on how many casks of grog we could guzzle in one sitting. The slaves required little supervision and kept to 'emselves with their own conversations, the majority involving weary recollections of their "wives 'an children". Such things were abysmally foreign to me, and a wonder to a listen to. They just as frequently entertained each other with soppy stories of freshly baked pastries or steaming hot pig-roasts. 'Couldn't the sods simply learn to appreciate the delicacies of Mordor instead? As if "peach pie" was better than a good chunk of smoked caragor.

Nearing the top of the canyon, I peeked my 'ead over the last few feet of red stone there was. A leather-wrapped pair of feet stood a hairs-width from me nose, a pair of feet, I noted, that was attached to a rather familiar set of gangly, green legs. The smug, hooded face of an archer eclipsed what little of the sun there was left on the horizon, casting a dark, but far from intimidating shadow over my 'ead. We both stood there for a while, stuck in a game of chicken. The crackshot was lasting longer than I expected, still not 'nuff to impress me in the slightest. I broke into a grin when 'is crossbow hand started to get twitchy. It weren't long before he succumbed to 'is own impatience, the bastard. 

"Damn mate. Why you always gotta go hard on me?" The leathery, muzzle-like cloth covering his mouth did nothing to change his signature pitchy voice.

I grunted and leaned 'back 'gainst the stone wall, letting the long line of tarks move past me. "I thought I was going easy 'till you up and quit seconds in."

He plopped 'imself down on the ledge above after slinging his crossbow into its holder. The weapon was comically large on his back, obviously made for a much wider uruk. He'd been asking for a more personally fit one from the bow smith for months, but to no avail. The bloated, balding uruk of a smithy deemed it unnecessary as long as he could shoot the one he already 'ad. His legs dangled a bit past my shoulders, short-cut trousers just covering his knees. We sat in silence, watching the slow progression of slaves as they moved up the rotting planks of wood. It really gave a perspective as to how many there were. Down in the mines, it was hard to grasp the true scale of the operation, the immensity of the hordes of slaves. Up above, they trickled out of the caves like a line of ants. The setting sun cast the canyon in an eery glow, hitting the flame-coloured stone in such a way that it gave the canyon a spirit all its own. It was hypnotizing in a strange, calming way. I decided to open my gob the break the silence.

"Oi, whatchu doing over 'ere anyways, eh? Shift over early?" 

Lugnak shook 'is head, mischevious glee glinting in 'is eyes. " Nah. Graug got loose in the courtyard." 

I sighed, mind full of disbelief. "You ain't telling m-"

"Oh I wish, trust me, I do." He was beaming under the mask, I could tell. "Nah. Some bloke workin' with the beasties thought up the brilliant idea to strap a saddle to its back. Must've pushed it over the edge, cause next thing I know," He motioned holding an invisible crossbow up to 'is eye "I've got a clear shot on a graug throwin' a hissy fit." He lowered his mimed weapon and reached behind the adjust the real one. "Didn't stick around to see what 'appened. 'Figured they wouldn't miss me in the heat of things, so I snuck 'way. " That sounded 'bout right. I always did figure Lugnak would make a better spy than archer, though he'd probably end up two-timing both of 'is bosses. He was a fickle uruk.

"When did this 'appen then, huh?"

"Shrakh, an hour 'go maybe? I reckon the fun's over by now." 

If the captains decided the stronghold was smelly enough, there was the enticing possibility of a whole graug corpse ripe for the picking. That was if word hadn't traveled far, which it was sure to do in the coming hours. The other archers had likely 'ad their pick by the time Lugnak 'ad found me. After midday's loss, I wasn't 'bout to pass up an opportunity to get my grabbers on a graug tail.

"Say," I prodded, "you think they'd let us tear off a chunk if we went over there? 'Ya know, 'ave a bit of a snack." He knew what I was getting at.

"I don't see why not." He pushed 'imself up so that he was standin' 'bove me again. "Wasn't but a runt, nothin' they'd bother hanging up on the tower. Probably why they thought they could put a saddle on 'im." 

Grabbing the ledge overhead, I heaved myself up and onto the stone, arm still straining from earlier. I stood back up and patted me trousers down, dusting off the red dirt that clung to it. Wordlessly, we turned and 'eaded towards the giant, wrought iron tower that barely peeked above the nest of gray, barren mountains the canyon sat between. A testament to the stronghold's might matching that of nature's itself. 

"Any news 'bout them Gondorians out west?" I queried. From my experience with rumors, the stuff I'd 'eard from the other guards wasn't worth shrakh 'less Lugnak confirmed it. Lookin' over, I saw him staring absently at the slave house, a cluster of shacks that 'ad been smashed together to form one big monster of a building at the top of the trench. It was a miracle the ol'house hadn't up and buckled from the stress put on it. On any night it was packed with more than a couple hundred tarks, and battered with the "gentle mountain breezes" of Mordor. Lugnak eyed the few slave trainers that showed up early, each one of 'em resting 'gainst the rotting walls as the guards corraled the tarks inside towering, open doors. Stepping inside them doors must've been like stepping inside the waiting maw of a caragor. Besides captains, slave trainers had the rare privilege to treat the mining slaves how they saw fit. And they reveled in it. 

A hearty slap on the back knocked the archer out of his stupor, body lurching forward unexpectedly. His fiery, wary eyes snapped to mine soon as he regained his footing.

"Oi! What's the big deal?" He barked. 

"I asked a question, daydreamer." I chided back. He dropped his defensive stance and brought a gloved hand to his eyes, scanning the quickly vanishing sun. 

"Nothing. Er, nothing they tell the archers at least. Must be on account of the... uh, you know." He made a series of gestures with 'is hands with an expectant look on 'is face, as if I was s'pposed to understand any of it. I quirked an eyebrow back. 

Lugnak made a sharp stop before takin' a look behind us as nonchalantly as he could, which was, when done by Lugnak, exceedingly obvious. I grappled with the urge to shove 'im away when he leaned in real close. The fool made the most exaggerated effort he could to stand on the balls of 'is feet, cup a hand to my ear, and whisper...

" _Spies_."

There were times when I couldn't tell whether he was trying to be a card, or being plain loopy.

I moved away, gauging if I should laugh at his joke or hit 'im over the head for listening to mindless rumors. As an archer, he was exposed to more nonsense than a normal uruk would deal with. They were renowned gossipers: a group of collectors and distributors of intel on whatever was current in Mordor. Sure did help that he was a sneaky bastard, being a third, unknown wheel in conversations he had no business listening to. 'Made 'im a decent conversationalist, though. At that point in time, I had no idea what was to befall our stronghold because of fabled spies.'Makes me wish I 'ad listened to Lugnak. He was the most serious I 'ad seen 'im for a long while, his eyebrows squared tightly 'bove his face. Whatever conversations he'd been eavesdropping on, they'de been wildly sensational. My disappointed glare was 'nuff to get 'im moving again, shoulders set in a way that I knew he was agitated. Watching 'im get wound in a tizzy was entertaining through and through.

"It's true! Swear it is!" He insisted, hands buried in the depths of 'is pockets. Chances were he was pickin' at the lining of them as he often did when keyed up. He'd had to get them resewn three times that month. " The Machine Tribe outpost down south, lovely little place. _Overrun_." He lowered 'is voice real soft like as if to prove a point. I scoffed.

" What about it then? Those outposts rise and fall on a whim."

He scrunched up what little face the hood revealed and jabbed my gut with a pointed finger.

"By its own orcs."

I swatted the offending hand away. "Sounds like a bucket of graug piss to me." 

Lugnak adjusted the weapon on 'is back and crossed his arms tightly, eyes wandering to the growing tower ahead of us. "Ain't what the overlord thought." I imagined he hadn't meant to say it out loud, that it was a mumble that should've been a cross thought in 'is 'ead. No matter how confident or self-assured Lugnak was, there was no way he'd purposefully let that slip. As soon as we both registered what had come out of 'is mouth, he smacked a hand over the cloth that covered 'is lips. If only it blocked out sound as well as it hid 'is face. Much of 'is life would've been a dream if not for that. We kept walkin' down the red-dirt path, canyon long since gone.

After a silence I deemed lengthy enough, I huffed and shook my 'ead. " Well now, you and Buguk must be right _chums_ for you to be given information like that. You think 'yer up for a promotion?"

Lugnak lowered his hand and set to fiddling with the loose threads on his hood. "It weren't like I was tryin' to be sneaky or 'nuffin, right? I was on my way over to the cook's shack when I spotted 'im standing with a few other blokes. They was all in an alley so's I KNEW something was stirrin'." His eye brows moved up 'n down in a way that made 'em look like two black worms 'avin a spasm. "You can't blame me for 'appening to catch a few words, can yah?!" His eyes rapidly darted over my face, lookin' for a hint of sympathy. It reminded me of the she-tark I'd encountered earlier that day. I grimaced at the memory.

" You didn't 'appen upon the idea you might get caught?"

"Ha! No. 'Ya don't think 'bout that kinda of sissy shrakh when into something as deep as what I was in. This weren't no idle gossip 'bout a pissin' contest between two tiny-clubbed Warchiefs, this was 'bout somethin' BIGGER. _Bigger_ than promotions, trials of might, and what have you. This were about something that could change the face of Mordor itself. " His voice and hand gestures began growing more and more fanatical, as if building up to an obvious conclusion. I couldn't help but feel intrigued.

"What are you lettin' on to?"

"Them spies, they weren't from other tribes." The gates of the stronghold were just up ahead, a minute more and we'd be through them.

"It couldn't 'ave been Wraith magic, not with that many."

"Nah. It was the Gravewalker alright." The half-opened iron clad doors stood tall, beckoning us into the courtyard. "He's building an army."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this I hope you enjoyed the piece! I may or may not continue this. It's mostly depending on how busy I'll be for the rest of the year and how it is received. A continuation may be a direct sequel or a piece on another character. Comments are more than welcome.


End file.
